It was beautiful that night. The hyperborean of a wind in a midyear, midnight beach.

Somehow, beer souring from fizz down my throat after a shot of Bailey's was a combination I welcomed.

And cigarettes. They tasted so fresh that night. No matter how old they were, they tasted so clean.

It swirled a light menthol typhoon in my mouth, and I breathed it all in, like an antiseptic nicotinic phallus.

We walked over to the sea and sat on the wooden bridge, which really looked like an extended swing.

'Is it me, or is it rickety?' I asked.

'It's swinging a little, probably due to the current.' he said.

I like the instability, I wanted to say but decided not to.

'I like the instability... somehow," he admitted instead.

"You know Joey, it's like the inch of trust, that last inch, that you hope doesn't break.' he said.

The wind flapping in the crevice of our ears that night was like nature's applause.